Glory Fades
by Avada Cait-davra
Summary: Spock doesn't know what he wants. Based on the song Sic Transit Gloria...Glory fades by Brand New. M for sex. I think it's better than it sounds? Hopefully?


Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek, or Brand New so now you can't sue me. Okay.

_Keep the noise low._

_She doesn't wanna blow it._

_Shaking from head to toe_

_while your left hand does "the show me around."_

_Quickens your heartbeat._

_It beats me straight into the ground._

_You don't recover from a night like this._

_A victim still lying in bed, completely motionless._

_A hand moves in the dark to a zipper._

_Hear a boy bracing tight against sheets barely whisper, _

_"This is so messed up."_

They were tangled in each other. _She _was tangled in him. Dark skin against light, almost too pale skin. He was apprehensive, that word barely covered what he was feeling. He was scared out of his Vulcan mind. Vulcans didn't feel emotions, right? Well, then his human side was working in overdrive. His heart was beating too fast, he was having second thoughts. She was moving quickly against him, removing his clothes with her hands. The adrenaline pumping through his veins made it impossible for him to have the presence of mind to know what to do. She was doing _all_ the work. A part of him felt bad about it, _he_ was supposed to be the gentleman, right? _He _was supposed to be on top, doing everything and she was supposed to be underneath him, moaning and moving and enjoying every minute of this. But he was in the position she should have been in, and he in hers. A most peculiar reversal of roles. And Spock, he sure as hell wasn't getting any enjoyment out of this.

_Upon arrival the guests had all stared._

_Dripping wet and clearly depressed,_

_he'd headed straight for the stairs._

_No longer cool, but a boy in a stitch,_

_unprepared for a life full of lies and failing relationships.(Up the stairs: the station where_

_the act becomes the art of growing up.)_

_He keeps his hands low._

_He doesn't wanna blow it._

_He's wet from head to toe and_

_his eyes give her the up and the down._

_His stomach turns and he thinks of throwing up._

_But the body on the bed beckons forward_

_and he starts growing up._

No, this was the last thing he wanted right now. But he didn't know how to tell her. He didn't know what to say. It was illogical, yes, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings. He loved her, he honestly did, but this was happening too fast. Too soon. _Much too soon._ He is used to relationships being chosen for him. He is used to that comfort, and used to only dealing with his partner sexually every seven years. And when that time came, the both of them were so high on adrenaline animalistic needs that it wasn't like this at all. It was merely a way of satisfying their needs. Quenching the parched feelings between their legs. Feeding the hunger for each other, after fasting for seven years. Pon Farr. Such a complex thing, but so much simpler than what was currently happening to him, it seemed. That was a ritual, something you learned about and practiced for. Something that needed to be done, and therefore was completed without question. Neither person having any doubt and hardly any feeling going into it. All feeling was drowned out by the inexplicable need to be touching and touched. The need to be inside of someone, the need to penetrate the boundary. There was hardly any emotion attached, and no recollection of any of the events that took place after it had been finished.

And this is so different. Painfully different. And He still doesn't know what to do with his hands. Tentatively, he lifts them. She is naked, hovering over him, sweating. He does not know where to put his hands. His long fingers hang in the air, splayed and equally as awkward as the way his mouth is hanging open. He gingerly sets his hands on her shoulders, afraid of placing them anywhere lower, not wanting to mess anything up. Yes, he wanted this to end, but he didn't want to be _the reason_ it ended. She moved suddenly, her hips bucking forward, beckoning for him to respond in any way he could. His hands fell awkwardly from his shoulders back against his sides.

_The fever, the focus._

_The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell._

_Die young and save yourself._

_The tickle, the taste of..._

_It used to be the reason I breathed, but now it's choking me up._

_Die young and save yourself_

Spock thought about how he'd gotten here. He had been with Uhura for nearly three months now. She had begun to get restless, he could tell. He didn't know what to do about it, however. He would never admit it, but he was terrible at relationships. He never knew what to say, never knew what to do. His drive to rid himself of all emotion was compromised with her. He wanted to shower her in all of the emotions known to man, Vulcans, or any other entity in the galaxy, but he just _didn't know how. _He had always been taught to hide his human side while growing up on Vulcan, among all the purebloods.

Three months of only kissing is enough to make anyone think the other party involved in the relationship isn't as interested as they initially thought. Uhura had voiced these feelings. Spock disagreed, stoically. But even though there was not much conviction behind the words, God how he'd meant them. At the time.

_She hits the lights._

_This doesn't seem quite fair._

_Despite everything he learned from his friends,_

_he doesn't feel so prepared._

_She's breathing quiet and smooth._

_He's gasping for air._

"_This is the first and last time," he says._

_She fakes a smile and presses her hips into his._

_He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides._

_He's holding back from telling her_

_exactly what it really feels like._

He had meant it. Right until the moment she had turned the lights off in her quarters and locked the door. That was when Spock realized exactly what he was in for. He was the one person on the whole Enterprise most qualified to solve anything, to figure out _anything_, and he couldn't even tell that his girlfriend wanted to sleep with him. She had taken off her shirt, her skirt, slowly and suggestively and Spock felt the breath flow from him in a forceful huff. He hadn't been able to take a full breath since. From that moment on, Uhura's hands were everywhere, her hair falling from it's usual pony tail and spreading everywhere, like a plague, tickling Spock's nose. He really can't breathe now. He promises himself he will never get himself into a situation like this again. Never, _ever_ again.

Sure, he had heard stories. He was best friends with Jim Kirk, Space Whore Extraordinaire, of course he had heard stories. He had sat with Jim and McCoy as they got drunk and listened to Jim recount his…_explorations_ of life forms on certain planets they had traveled to. He had heard play by play details of what happened when, of who put what where, of how fast and of how hard. But he could not remember for the life of him where he was supposed to put his hands. Or his legs for that matter. They were beginning to feel increasingly awkward. Every part of him was beginning to feel awkward. He was covered in sweat from head to toe, the center of him the origin of all the warmth, Uhura lighting the fire inside him. The fire burning down the walls of his house, faster than any amount water could put out the flame.

This was madness. It was not bliss like it had been described to him many a time. How was this all humans thought about? How was _this_ what they thrived on? He could not understand it for the life of him. There were so many thoughts racing through his head he was getting dizzy. He felt sick. He wanted Uhura to stop. To just stop torturing him. The feeling was odd, cumbersome. Warmth pooled behind his navel and his muscles tensed up. What was he supposed to do?

_He is the lamb, she is the slaughter._

_She's moving way too fast, and all he wanted was to hold her._

_Nothing that he tells her is really having an effect._

_He whispers that he loves her,_

_but she's probably only looking for se..._

She was ravaging him. Her fingernails digging into his back. He was certain they were drawing blood. Green stains on the sheets. Spock's fingers dig themselves into the sheets. He needs to hang on to something. There is such a swirl of color in his head he is afraid he is going to lose consciousness. He moves his hands up and close his arms around her back, but she squirms out of them. She is moving convulsively, a small controlled moan escaping from her lips. Spock wants to scream, there is so much building up inside of him, he can't contain himself for very much longer, but he is afraid of what will happened if he succumbs. His mouth opens and closes a few times, something fighting to come out.

"I love you, t'hy'la."

No, that word is awkward on his tongue. She is not his t'hy'la and he knows that now, but it is too late. The words are already out of his mouth. But Uhura is gasping and making small noises profusely now. She doesn't comment on his statement. Either she didn't hear, or didn't care.

_So much more than he could ever give._

_A life free of lies and a meaningful relationship._

_He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides._

_He waits for it to end_

_and for the aching in his guts to subside_

She is all over him, every inch of him is covered by her. He hates this feeling. This hurts, in ways that he is certain it should not. He can't breathe still, he can't clear his mind. Maybe if he could think straight, he could rationalize what was going on, but- No. Uhura shifts and a rasping moan escapes his mouth. _Why does this hurt so much? _Physically, emotionally. God, this is not what he wants. It's much too late to turn back now. It would probably hurt worse if he did. Clenching his eyes shut, his hips buck forward into hers and he loses it. His eyes plastered back open, his mouth open in a silent sob, fingernails practically cutting tiny holes in the sheets.

_The fever, the focus._

_The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell._

_Die young and save yourself._

_The tickle, the taste of..._

_It used to be the reason I breathed, but now it's choking me up._

_Die young and save yourself._

The fire previously gathering inside of him exits him furiously, inconsiderately. Uhura gasps as he fills her and her eyes take in Spock's filled with some emotion he cannot place. He looks to her with worry afraid, now that this is over, that he has ruined something and things will no longer be the same. He tilts his head forward and tries to his her, his forehead wet with sweat pressing against hers making his bangs stick oddly to his skin. She pulls away. Stands. Turns the lights on. Announces she is getting in the shower.

Leaves him lying, heaving on that bed. Completely spent, breathless, emotionless and unable to close his eyes.

Things have changed. It is tangible in the air. He just is not sure what has changed.

_Up the stairs: the station where the act becomes the art of growing up._

Things _did_ change. The next morning Uhura confronted him and informed him their relationship was no longer working out. Spock, on the verge of being emotionally compromised, switched shifts with another ensign and took the morning to meditate. He had no idea why this had happened. He knew it was what he wanted last night, but now he was miserable cold and alone. What had he done wrong?

_The fever, the focus._

_The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell._

_Die young and save yourself._

_The tickle, the taste of..._

_It used to be the reason I breathed, but now it's choking me up._

_**Die young and save yourself.**_

Okay, I feel like this was bad. I don't know. It's late. But this whole idea just wouldn't leave me alone. Tell me what you thought maybe please?


End file.
